Liv, Forever (21 page)

Crossing campus, we saw several alumni—men and women dressed impeccably in suits or silk dresses. Not ostentatious, though. Nothing flashy. I think it’s that Old Money thing, where people are so secure in their wealth they don’t have to show it off. Malcolm nodded hellos, introducing Gabe with, “You know Gabriel Nichols. His mother’s Cynthia Goggins.” Like the handshake, the statement “you know” told the others Gabe was one of them. Subtext: If they didn’t know him, they should.

As we came through the woods near Old Homestead, I noticed Gabe fidgeting. I glanced over and saw Weeping
Willow Girl—aka Ruth—sitting at the base of her tree, singing.

Malcolm noticed Gabe’s change in demeanor. “Do you see one?” he whispered.

Gabe nodded. “And she’s singing. I hate it when she sings.”

“Don’t listen,” I urged him.

But when she noticed us, she got up and came after us. “Come back! Come back here, you!”

Gabe picked up the pace, but I hesitated. However frightening she was, I wanted to hear what she had to say. But this was not the time so I rushed along. When I glanced back to see if she was behind us, she wasn’t. She was back at the willow tree, and a ghostly figure in a long black dress was gripping her arms. The figure moved to conceal herself behind the trunk when she saw me looking, but I caught a glimpse—she seemed to be trying to calm Ruth, restraining her.

“Don’t worry. She’s gone,” I told Gabe, deciding it best not to provide all the details. He nodded and puffed himself back up.

Passing the old well moments later, Gabe smiled at me. I’d forgotten he could see me here. I smiled back. It felt so good to be seen.

Again, Malcolm noticed. “You see Liv?”

Gabe nodded.

“Is she beautiful?”

“Of course. Except for a couple of bruises, she died pretty nice.” He always knew how to lighten up the mood.

THE HOUSE WAS DARK
against the dusky pink sky. The woodwork I’d found so beautiful at the beginning of the year now looked more like black webbing, like a snare. Limousines were parked along one side, a fleet of hatted chauffeurs at the ready.

As we entered, I was surprised to find that there was no list. No gatekeeper. Only the portrait of Wallace and Minerva watched over the entrance. Everyone seemed to know who was who, and no one questioned authenticity. We were ushered into the grand living room where the Victors mingled. Gabe started to look spooked.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll be watching.”

Malcolm greeted people again and again with The Handshake—people he knew, people who knew him and his father. And the introduction, “You know my friend Gabriel Nichols. His mother is Cynthia Goggins,” put the older Victors immediately at ease. I kept my eyes out for Kent and Abigail and Sloan and Amos.

Malcolm’s father was presiding over a small cluster of men toward the back. Malcolm greeted him the same way. Once he’d made introductions, Malcolm slipped away. That was the plan: he’d go into the basement and look through the Wickham things while Gabe worked the crowd. It seemed the safest strategy. If Gabe was caught rifling in the basement, he’d probably be expelled—or worse. And I was to stay with Gabe, coaching while trying to keep an eye on the exits to make sure no one headed down to where Malcolm was.

As planned, we looped back around to some of the older people Malcolm had introduced Gabe to. First, he
approached a fit man in his fifties who’d been introduced as a friend of Malcolm’s father.

“So, Mr. Maxwell, how did you get to know Mr. Astor?” Gabe asked.

“Right upstairs. In that room you know well.”

“You were Victors together?”

He nodded. This man was terribly proud of himself. “I was president the year after he was. He got the anniversary year, the one hundred and tenth. Lucky fellow.”

“Oh, an anniversary year. Magnificent,” Gabe fawned.

“He can tell you’re being snotty,” I snipped.

“Forgive me, sir, sometimes I get overexcited about Wickham Hall’s history. It’s so fascinating.” He smiled at the man and walked away.

The man watched him. He might have distrusted Gabe but not enough to do anything about it.

“I think you need to dial it back a little,” I said. “They’re not idiots. They can tell if you’re making fun. Don’t call attention to yourself like that.”

Gabe sighed audibly, reaching for his nonexistent hair.

We then came across an older woman, Mrs. Slade, maybe seventy, sipping on a martini with several olives. Gabe started right in, talking about the peace he found while rowing. She was just delighted to be acquainted with him (and a good deal tipsy).

“You know you’re made,” she cooed to him.

“Made?”

“Being handsome
and
a Victor. Be careful, because you can have anything you want.”

“She’s flirting,” I teased.

“Gross,” he spat out, accidentally.

“Gross?” she asked.

“Gross pleasures will be avoided or at least enjoyed in moderation.
That
I assure you,” he quipped.

She giggled, charmed. “Well, if you end up being president,
forget
about it.”

“Forget about
what
, Mrs. Slade?”

“You’ll have the keys to the world then,” she said, leaning closer to Gabe. “The presidents have it
all.
They
know
it all, and they have it all, those devils.”

“What do they know?” Gabe asked demurely.

“They never let a woman be president, so I wouldn’t know the
real
secrets.” She winked. “You tell
me
when we meet here again in a few years.”

“Mrs. Slade, I take my oaths
very
seriously.”

“Of course you do,” she giggled. “You’re just a darling, aren’t you?”

“Oh, he is, isn’t he?” Kent appeared from behind us, all smiles.

Abigail, not far behind, asked, “But what is he doing here?”

Right then a classical string trio started up, and Mrs. Slade tottered off to admire the musicians. But Kent and Abigail stayed put.

“Seriously, what are you doing here?” Abigail asked.

“I came with Malcolm.”

“Then where is he?” asked Kent.

“Getting some food.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t recognize you?” Abigail smirked.

“You noticed my makeover? I’m so flattered.”

“You’re not welcome here,” she snapped.

“Oh, but I am,” he boasted with the utmost confidence. “Are you not aware that Cynthia Goggins is my mother?”

Abigail and Kent both scrutinized him, trying to figure out if he was for real.

“And why are we just hearing this now?” Abigail pressed.

“To be honest, because I didn’t like you. But now I see the perks of being a Victor. So, come on, do you really want to make a scene?”

“No, I just want to know what you’re up to,” Kent pressed. “What are you doing to my friend?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Kent turned and walked away, searching for Malcolm. Abigail followed him, of course. And I trailed them both, telling Gabe, “I’ll be back.”

Kent stalked over to the food table spilling over with lobster, edible flowers, stuffed artichokes, and other stuff rich people eat. He looped around the table while Abigail cruised past the bar, where vintage Victors were getting crystal tumblers filled with gin or scotch.

A heavy-set, distinguished old man—a politician no doubt—stopped Kent, did The Handshake. “Kent Steers, good to see you, son. Is your father here?”

“Mr. Samuels, hello. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make it this year. He’s at that summit in Dubai.”

“Of course, I knew that,” Mr. Samuels said, patting Kent on the back. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you.”

“Yes, sir, it is. But, if you’ll excuse me, at the moment, I’m looking for one of my Victors.” Kent pulled Abigail
over and presented her to Mr. Samuels. “But I’m sure you remember my sister, Abigail.”

“Carry on,” Mr. Samuels said, clapping Kent heartily on the back. He turned to Abigail. “Miss Steers, look how you’ve grown.”

She smiled and stayed with Samuels, trapped, as Kent rushed off. He pushed through the swinging wooden door, headed into the hallway. I soared over to him, barely making it through the opening as the door swung back. Kent was wasting no time. He rushed through the rooms, looking for Malcolm. He pressed through the kitchen, where the catering staff was buzzing about how to keep the lobster properly cascading.

“Did someone go through here?” Kent asked no one in particular, gesturing to a door at the back of the kitchen.

The caterers shrugged; no one had seen anything. But Kent slowed his pace and opened the door quietly. The moment the door was open, I charged ahead, flying down the stairs in front of him. I was supposed to warn Malcolm if someone was coming.

As I raced through the cellar, I passed through a small bare room, stone on all sides. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all charred black. That room connected to another room, this one finished sumptuously in every way. Thick dark-velvet curtains draped the walls. A round table stood in the middle of the space—a billowing light fixture hovering above it. I’d never seen a séance room, but I’d say this qualified.

Malcolm sat at the table scattered with stacks of old notebooks and several odd small objects—vessels and
blades of various shapes—poring over what looked like an old journal, pocket-sized and filled with handwritten notes.

I rushed at him, which I hoped would give him a chill. I pushed myself toward the table, going right through it and Malcolm both. Excruciating pain. But he looked up. He knew I was there and knew something was wrong. He quickly concealed two of the objects in his jacket pockets and closed the journal. But before he could pocket it, Kent appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, man,” Kent said casually.

“Hey.”

“Party’s upstairs.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to get away. You know, my dad.” Malcolm was good.

Kent nodded. “What’s that notebook?”

“I dunno. Just some weird notes and things. The Wickhams were into some pretty creepy stuff, huh?”

Kent shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not really our business, is it?”

Malcolm nodded. “Probably not.”

“Come on, let’s go back up.”

“I’d rather hang down here for a few.”

“You better come back up now. I don’t know why you brought that guy.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but that guy is actually a Goggins.”

“Lineage isn’t all it takes. You know that. He’s not in yet, so you can’t leave him up there alone.” Kent was firm.

Malcolm got up. He hung back. It was clear he
wanted to pocket the journal, but Kent kept his eyes on him. “After you,” Kent said, gesturing toward the doorway.

So Malcolm went ahead, leaving the notebook behind.

That’s when I saw her. It was the woman from the painting upstairs: Minerva. I recognized her dark, piercing eyes, which were now dull. Dead. And she was as faint as the others. She was dressed in a long, black dress, and I realized she was the dark figure I’d seen with Ruth. She stared at me, and I held her gaze.

“You’re not to meddle here. Please, consider yourself fortunate and move along.”

“
Fortunate
? I’m dead,” I snapped.

“But at least you’re
here.
”

She rushed at me with a speed faster than I’d known a ghost could go and grabbed me. I could feel her fingers digging into my shoulders as if they were still flesh. She terrified me, but in that moment, she made me feel alive again. I had substance! Until then, I hadn’t known ghosts could feel other ghosts. But then she pushed me with such force that I ripped right through the cellar ceiling and into the party, screaming.

I landed near the string trio, which continued to play, oblivious. But Gabe heard my scream. I could see him shuddering, wincing away from Mr. Samuels, whom he’d been chatting with.

“Are you all right, son?” Mr. Samuels asked him.

“Yes. Migraines, you know. Sometimes they just strike. Like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. Mr. Samuels nodded but looked suspicious.

I was getting back on my feet, aching, when I saw Minerva again—in the corner, watching me.

“Go,” she demanded. She sounded angry but also somehow concerned, almost maternal. It took me aback for a moment, but then she came at me again. This time, I fought back. I prepared myself for her strike, building up my own force. When she hit me, we collided more like two humans would. She knocked me down but did not push me through the wall. No, it turned out I was stronger than she was. We both tumbled across the floor. I stung all over as we skidded through a group of chattering Victors.

I desperately wanted to grab something to hit her with—anything! But I couldn’t, of course, so I went at her with all I had:
me.
I could tell she was tired and weakening. I jumped up, weightless for an instant, then thrust into her with such force that she tumbled through the outer wall of the house, screaming all the way. Through the bay window, I watched her fade away, reeling into the distance.

I looked up and saw Malcolm had returned. He was at Gabe’s side, backing up the migraine story to Mr. Samuels.

“He gets what they call flash migraines. They come on really fast.” Malcolm looked at Gabe. “I can see your pupils dilating.”

“Yeah?” Gabe asked, still gathering himself. “I better get my inhaler.”

“Please excuse us, Mr. Samuels.” Malcolm flashed a winning, apologetic smile. “I think I should escort Mr. Nichols here back to his dorm to get his medicine.”

Mr. Samuels nodded, watching them with curiosity as we went.

 

I received an inter-school memorandum stating that I was to attend a small honors ceremony in the cemetery. I had been invited to several such things in my two years at Wickham Hall. I was excited to have another award to list on my college application. I hoped to attend Radcliffe.

I worked very hard to maintain the highest grade point average and avoided all possible diversions. I had not heard the Beatles album all the way through. I had not even taken time to mourn Kennedy the way everyone else had, crying and carrying on. No, I was at the library reading
Anna Karenina.
My book report was not going to be a day late just because the president had been shot.

So it never occurred to me that the letter could be a hoax. It appeared very real.

It was raining, so I wondered if the ceremony was going to be postponed. I checked the memo and there was no contact information or indication of what faculty member was in charge, so I had to assume it would proceed as planned. I set my hair and put on
the tweed suit that my mother had made me. It was the only upside to having a mother who labored in the garment district. She knew how to make a good suit for these occasions.

My parents had cried when I got the envelope from Wickham Hall because it meant they had succeeded. Things were going to change. They had come to the States from Hungary with nothing. But all their work—their callouses and bloodied fingertips—had not been in vain. I had already started a letter informing them of my newest accolade. I planned to finish it when I got back to the dorm, before going to dinner.

But when I got to the cemetery, nobody was there. Then someone approached. A Sixth Former. I had never met him, but I recognized him. He was president of the student government so of course I knew his name. He was very handsome. He sat down next to me and asked to hold my hand. Of course I noticed he was wearing gloves, but I thought it was because there was a chill in the air.

He quickly pulled a blade from his pocket and slit across my wrist. As I screamed and squirmed, he pushed me down onto a headstone, covered my mouth, and cut my other wrist. He dropped the blade at my feet, looked right into my dying eyes, and said
, “Fac fortia et patere.”
Perhaps he did not know I was an honors student in Latin, but I knew exactly what it meant: “Do brave deeds and endure.”